


Shadow Dancer

by Silencewrites



Series: Shadow Dancer [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Aliens, Death, Drugs, Multi, Original work - Freeform, Science Fiction, Transgender, cross-specie, original writing - Freeform, relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-17 10:10:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13074663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silencewrites/pseuds/Silencewrites
Summary: Jo was never meant to be. A science mistake that would never be duplicated. Part Human part Kyseer, he struggles to find a place in the universe for himself, while factors beyond his control force him into the middle of a war-between gods and mortal beings alike.





	1. 1.2

**Author's Note:**

> this is a snippet of original work, to see if there is any interest to post more! None of this is edited..I am still looking for an editor, so please forgive my cruddy grammar :(

“And what are you doing, Squishflop?” The words were high and sing song, a very human voice quickly followed by an equally human hand laying on his shoulder.

He did his best not to react, but couldn’t completely hide his disgust, nor the faint glow of red from the delicate, mobile horns curled along his skull or the hiss that built up in the back of his throat. The reaction in his body was automatic, stiffening of every muscle, his mind taking in the emotions that came with touch before he could slip away. Like any full blooded Kyseer, or telepath for that matter, touching was not something they did socially. Touch came with mind tones, shades of what the person was thinking, emotions, a prism of colours. You only touched when invited, or between close friends and intimate partners. When the telepath had time to shield more than the basic every one of them had up constantly. 

Flashes from the simple touch as he jerked away, smoke in a room, writhing bodies locked in a sensual embrace, the high of Ur hitting the brain and the false reality that game with it.

Of course, just his luck. An Ur addicted human. 

As humans went, he’d have to say she would have been ravishingly beautiful if it wasnt’ for the numerous gene-alterations and the obvious addiction to Ur. Her eyes had the pink tinge from the drug, and she clutched a cup to her chest that had the spicy, earth scent of it in the steam.

The drug itself, Ur, translated to Dust of the Gods, a once holy additive to the magic wielding priests of the past. The drug opened the pathways in the brain to allow users to touch the Rift constantly, and thus actively use the power they found there, enhancing their own abilities. Once taken the drug became a must, and without a dose every three days the user went into withdrawals. Liquid produced in the brain, by the weaving gland, doubled until the pressure was to much. Brain hemorrhaging, blood vessels exploding. Hallucinations. All of it happened before they died-painfully. It was believed the powers it gave far outweighed the downfalls of the drug in Kyseers.

In Kyseer, the drug turned only their weave-sense eyes pink. In humans, lacking the extra set of eyes, it rendered them blind. While it was extremely rare, some humans were born with a weaver gland, but most lacked the ability to ‘see’ the Rift and the energies that surrounded it. Instead of enhancing their powers, like it did in Kyseer, it gave the humans a heightened sense of reality, enhanced their senses, and trapped them in a euphoric state like no other.

While there was a call to ban the drug from the general market, most knew it would be near impossible. Once taken, the user was addicted. There was no replacement for the drug, and no cure. To make matters worse, strains of manufactured Ur were on the black markets, far stronger-and worse than the natural. Users were forced to dose every day instead of three. Trapping them completely. Even if they did ban the natural strain, there was so much of the new one on the market, they couldn’t stop it.

Jo frowned and clicked his thin, hard lips together, nails clicking against his com pad. He had been reading, stupid it seemed, to assume that the out of the way dive bar he had found had been perfect. All smooth metal edges and a rough voiced bar owner who eyed him from beneath heavily furred brows, his thick country drawl quite attractice. No one else was there but a slouched over construction worker in the corner, mulling over a hot cup of khani and a pastry lunch. 

He pretended to ignore the human, turning back to his vid com and watching the words, glowing a faint red, scroll past. He was on the part where it was just getting good too, the story was explaining the Mardixu rebellion, why ALREL was afraid of shadow weavers and the aftermath.

A hand stopped in front of his screen messing up the holo-pad and he hissed in the back of his throat his short mobile horns twitching backwards in dislike, once more glowing a faint angry red.

"I said what are you doing Squishflop?" She purred and he was aghast to realize that other scent. His nose was far more advanced, thanks to his kyseer genetics. She was flirting with him!

"I..." he wasn't quite sure what to say, fuck off seemed a tad too rude and plus-she was blind how did she know he was-

"I can smell you. And you click when you type. Talons. And since you lack that deliciously disgusting fish smell of the full bloods or that musty wet cat smell of Rhakshiaa, that makes you a squishflop. A halfling. And since there is only one halfling that us peons are aware of, your name is Jo is it not?" She explained before he could even finish and he sighed feeling the stab of pain in his temple that meant someone was screwing around in his brain. Jo' was quick to put up his mental barriers, cursing himself for not having them up in the first place.

"It's rude to probe." He hissed at her, hating how animal he sounded right now in his agitated state.

"You weren't guarded." She offered back, smirked as she leaned against the table, hips turned just right and he found himself hastily looking away, shuddering in disgust. He needed to run, run quick and far away and maybe he could get back to his story.

"That's no excuse. You know the rules. No weaver magic allowed without permission unless it's for someones life or the Pantheon." He muttered at her, nearly tugged out his code chip hanging around his neck to chuck it at her-before he remembered she was blind.

"Hmmm..so Squishflop, what are you doing?" She murmured, ignoring his prior questions.

He cast a sideways glance at her, taking in her gene-alterations. Sharpened cat teeth, dyed skin and feather implants. What he assumed was ‘all the rage’ at the current moment of fashion. All he saw was a waste of credits. She made his eyes hurt. She made everything hurt, actually. He could feel a headache start to form from where she’d probed.

He hadn’t been in a good mood to begin with today. Finding a quiet place to read had been surprisingly hard. Father could have easily found him in his room, and the other cafes and parks were teeming with visitors and Kyseer alike. 

Jo could feel the hot warmth of the chromatophores in his horns and cheeks as they changed color to a deadly red of anger. His vision twisted, canted to the side before resetting itself with a jerk. 

The red got darker and he felt it seep along to his cheek scales, felt his world twist a bit. Jo became aware of the shadows around them, that they thickened as he watched them eyes expanding than contracting and expanding again watching the faint hint of purple hue whirl over them, twirl and writhe like some erotic dance. It took all of his will to jerk his eyes away from what he was sure was a hallucination back to the woman.

He knew he was being irrational. The rude comment was just that, a comment, but everything had gone wrong today and all he had wanted to do was end it with some quiet time and a book. 

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” 

Don’t you?” She taunted back. 

He did, in fact. Numerous places. But he wasn’t about to tell her that. “Human’s arent-”

“Are we being segregated now? I wasn’t aware!” She widened her eyes and flicked her feathered Mohawk upward, making his nausea rise. 

“Of course not! You know that! I just meant, you guys tend to stay to a particular part of the city...” Though eyeing the mug in her hand, she was probably to high to know anything, like where she was. “You should be with other..I mean you shouldn’t..what do you want?” He gave up trying to manufacture some excuse to make her leave.

Jo turned to the bartender for help, but knew it was futile. As a people Rhakshiaa lacked personal boundaries the most, were completely open and almost always told the truth. An entertainment driven species, and given his obvious age and where his bar was located-Jo had the painful suspicion that the male was lacking in that industry as of late.

True to what he was thinking, the cat like man was hunched in the far corner, cleaning mugs and pretending not to stare. He’d intervene if things got physical again, all species would. To touch a telapath without permission was a crime, but Jo was on his own till then. 

Since the woman was quiet after his out burst, Jo turned back to his data pad and tried hard to concentrate on the text flashing on the screen. He knew he was irrational, he knew he was being rude, but that..hallucination from the hospital ward days ago kept playing on repeat when he tried to sleep, He did not have the strength to deal with the lowly female addict.

“I said, what were you doing Squishflop? No need to hiisssss at me.It was a simple enough question” She leaned against his seat, hips tilted and curved in such a way that he had the perfect view down her absurdly low cut shirt.”Clearly some fisherman reeled you in and cast you out, decided you werent worth it. Grumpy, unwelcome and you don’t even smell like a proper squishflop.” Her voice was part sing song and part cruel intentions. 

He didn’t want it to, but her words about being unwanted hurt, hurt more than the colorful bruise that still dappled his body from where the Heket’ari’s tail hit him. He didn’t know what to say, he just gaped like the fish she had called him, ashamed at himself for being unable to form a witty retort back. 

**Hit her. Show her who is truly greater!**

Yes. It would be so easy. No one would care. A lowly human addict, calling him, worthless, wasting his time? She deserved a good smack and worse! 

At his side, the hand not on his comp pad curled into a delicate fist, talons digging into the soft skin on his palms. Something warm and comforting curled around his feet, inside his mind. Something that felt safe. 

**Yes. Do it. No one will be angry with you. They’ll praise you even, for getting rid of the trash**

No. No..that..that wasn’t right. Just because she was Ur-addicted didn’t mean she was trash, she..she was a sentient being, she had a heart, misguided or not. He tried to tug his foot free from his stool rim, realized something held it there. 

“Stop, please..just..just go away.” His voice was faint as his vision began to tilt once more. Surely he had unconsciously shifted his secondary eyelids over his eyes, dust..or something. That was it.

“Poor little boychild. Or wait..isn’t it girl child? I could have sworn it was. Getting so upset over a normal question. Whats up with you girly, don’t like someone flirting with you? I don’t mind that you’re a half breed freak, ill take anyone.” She laughed, cruel, words sharp enough to lodge into his heart grind its way into the flesh there. 

Jo could taste blood in his mouth. His rows of sharp teeth must have dragged against the inside of his cheek. For some reason, the coppery taste sent his vision lurching once more, this time back to normal-before it tilted once more. 

Jo could feel his arms go weak, didn’t even notice one slip off the table to hang useless at his side with the other. Couldn’t even bother to keep up his firm shields, felt them slipping and with it cruel images and emotions coming from the woman. 

That insidious voice came back, and this time he almost welcomed it, welcomed the way it pushed the dysphoria and sick feelings of himself out of the way. 

**Do it. The power is right there. Show her who you truly are! DO IT! YES REACH, BE STRONG!**

His eyesight went completely, filmed over until all he could see was darkness. Couldn’t even feel the woman’s hands on his shoulders anymore, the way she was leaning over him to look down his loose tunic, for “Proof’ she had cackled. 

Feet were locked to the rim of his stool, fingers grasped for something warm and got it, felt something thick curl around his digits and settle there. A warmth, living being that pulsed with the rythm of his rapidly beating heart. 

No. NO. He wouldn’t take this anymore. 

“GO AWAY! GO BACK TO YOUR DRINK AND LEAVE ME BE!” His pale blue crest mantled strong as he hissed, flashing sharp teeth and two sets of pure black eyes, no longer holding the innocent, large pupils. 

The warm, pulsating thing in his fingers curled around his wrist bone, writhed its way up his arm. Yes. Oh Gods yes, it felt so good. 

“Someone is grumpy. Your head frill get squished? Do you have egg still on your toes? Come on little boy girl, I was being nice. Asked a simple question, got snapped at. Tried to make it better. It's not like you get many people throwing themselves at you.” She cruelly added another barb.

It would be so easy to hurt her. Just enough to shut her up, rough her up a bit, and then she'll see-

**YES YES DO IT YES SHOW HER! SHOW THEM ALL**

“Is something the matter here?” The four furred fingers landed heavily on his shoulder, tightening enough to press retractable claws onto his tunic. With it, something snapped around his mind, a concrete shield that nothing he knew could break. He looked up into a face carved with worry lines, a red furred muzzle crooked from long fangs that rested as visible white marks on his jaw.

It was the Rhakshiaa from the hospital ward. The one who had caused, or at least been a catalyst, to his hallucination.

A mind touched his own, there were no echoes or projections in it, and it held a flavor of something cold and bitter. _:You are projecting loudly youngling.:_

He flushed, remembering abandoning Gregain at the infirmary days ago. It seemed the Rhakshiaa had healed well though, standing tall in pale army pants and a vest. He kept his other hand hovering over a Talon-sword, a foot of curved metal used more for symbolic purposes than fighting.

Jo couldn't project back. While he had weaving magic, he was not telepathic. He was an Empath. All he could do was project the confusing pile of emotions he was feeling, in the front-fear. Unknown to him, as he peered up, hopeful and pathetic at the Rhakshiaa, pupils once more formed in both his eyes as he begged for help. 

Out of view of the addicted female, Gregain tapped a claw tip on his sword in way of answer, along with the gentle, wordless answer that yes, he would help.

“Get going fur-face, we don't need you! I was just talking to the half breed!” The woman made a rapid ‘shoo’ motion to the door, leaned even farther down along Jo’s shivering body. 

Confused in more ways than one, Jo stared down at his hands to look anywhere but at her, and saw something that made vomit rise in the back of his throat. Dark, thick purple tendrils, Rift magic, were wrapped around his feet and hands, encasing them in vein like growths. Half way to his knees, and half way to his elbows. The magic continued to throb with his heart beat and he realized he could feel it digging deeper than mere skin level. This..this wasn’t natural. This wasn’t normal! What ever this was, he didn’t want it!

Jo searched his mind for the memory of his numerous studies, about how to deal with Rift magic if he ever got the ability to ‘see’ it. Crius had taught him the almost physical feeling of ‘pushing’ it away when you no longer wanted, nor needed the aid of the weave. Almost viciously he thrust at it mentally, and physically, until all he saw was his normal, grey tinged fingers and booted feet. 

Surely Gregain hadn’t seen it, Rhakshiaa couldn’t see the Rift. He..he wouldn’t know. There was no way he could know what he had almost done!

“Human, I think it's time for you to go. This area is used by the priests workers of the temples, and you are not one of them. Your anger would only upset them.” Gregain carefully grabbed her by her arm trying to tug her towards the air lock. He was gentle and yet firm, but she struggled and yanked aiming a few half kicks at his bent limbs.

“I was just asking a question! It's not a priest either. You can't do this! I'll go to the authorities you know.” 

To Jo’s growing confusion and violent urge to vomit, he finally saw there were two priests standing at hte door, light weavers by the insignia on what little clothing they wore. He hadn’t noticed them, heard them, felt them. How long had they been there, what had they seen? He could taste acid in the back of his throat, fear crawling its cold hand up his spine and into his mind. This..this was worse than the hallucinations, worse than that terrifying voice in his mind. They would destroy the part of his mind that was telepathic for this. There was no question. 

Jo withdrew even more, hiding behind every mental shield he could erect-and hastily accepted the bucket a startled bar owner threw at him to throw up in. He lost what little contents of his stomach he had, and wretched for what felt like forever.

Over his noises he could still hear the conversations, and wished he couldn't. The Light-Weaver’s had now joined in to extract the female from the premises, weaving light bands around the womans arms so she could not struggle and continue to scratch and hit Gregain.

“Jo does not wish for companionship. If he did he would have told you. Your lip would have gotten a slap if you were in any other place!” The Rhakshiaa hissed, the first sign of real anger he had shown since they had met. The Weavers remained silent, concentrating on aiding the furred warrior in taking her somewhere to be held. It would be useless to try and detox her. 

_:I will not tell anyone what happened here. The Weavers saw nothing. I assure you. But you must meet me at the temple of Light tomorrow, around noon. And..be safe. Please:_

The mind voice still had the cold, bitter ‘taste’ to it, but it also filled his mind like a cat brushing up against his leg. While he did his best to send back feelings of understanding, while bent over a bucket, Jo felt himself shudder. Something told him Zafii, the Light God, would not welcome him into his temple of light and holiness. 

His temple was beautiful, a glowing beacon in the city of Prime. It was also his priests who stood foremost against the mind-controlled Shadow-Weavers during the Mardixu Rebellion. His stomach twisted as he made his way out of the bar, studiously ignoring the two priests. Zafii was the Protector of the Light and his followers only harnessed that weaving magic. His temple was beautiful and easily spotted through out the city. A glowing beacon of welcome. He should have been relaxed and calm at the idea of visiting. He was anything but.

Light-Weavers were the primary defence against shadow-weavers. During the Mardixu Rebellion, when the Deity had taken over all Shadow-Weavers, it was Zafii's priests who stood foremost against them. All Kyseer parents had their children’s genes checked before birth, and if marked with the taint of Shadow-weaving, it was quietly burned out of them. Better have a child mind-numb then one who would have to be marked, numbered and watched by the dark priests of Mardixu’s temples. This was considered ‘better’ and more humane then what had occurred for a few decades after the rebellion. A dark stain on Kyseer’s past that they didn’t want to remember. Where they quietly allowed shadow weavers to be culled. 

He had been checked though, like all children, he had been checked. Nothing had showed up on his tests. Why? What..what was he?


	2. The Flesh is Weakest

SHADOW DANCER  
A novel by Damien Danos

 

\----  
“It will be war, then.” Sadness clipped the words that echoed in the expansive darkness.

“They are always at war. You know that best, brother.” Three sets of filmed over eyes moved to regard the first speaker.

“Yes. But will he be able to intervene? The expanse shows little. There are too many possibilities. They push into the Rift and send out many prospects. One little move can tip the balance, and then…what?”

“That is the point. Sisters, brothers, this conversation is moot. War will come either way. We must influence the Shadow Dancer, or the sea-god will kill us all. Do it. Do it now, and let it be done.”

Six heads looked up, power writhing and twining behind them.

“It is done,” the Six echoed.

 

Chapter One: The Flesh is Weakest  
Experience: that most brutal of teachers. But you learn, my God do you learn.  
CS. Lewis

 

He knew he was bad luck before, but having his foster-father push him, quite literally in fact, to the infirmary affirmed the notion. In fact it cemented it. He was lord of bad luck, king of the damned. And on top of it, he felt like just a shelf to hold gauze and needles. 

Not that he minded his trips to the infirmary normally, it padded his quota for schooling. But he still dug his claws in to prove a point, or attempted to anyway. His near seven foot, thousands of pounds foster father nudged him harder, prodding and poking him the entire way there. 

“You are never where you are supposed to be! I spent an hour trying to find you Jo! You must hurry. I need your help!” Crius all but yelled, his thick domed skull smacking into Jo’s back, making him stumble more than once until he caught himself on the wall. Though he could brush off the familiar weight, it served as a painful reminder how small he was compared to the Kyseer.

“Oh Da!, you know you just have to tap into my mind to find me, if its really that important.” He dug his claws in once more, a useless endeavour-as useless as his comments. No Kyseer in their right mind would touch another mind and look into it to view locations, not without strict permission ahead of time.

Before the familiar doors of Infirmary Wing B, Crius gave one last painful push-just enough to push Jo past the air locks. The bright harsh lights immediately making Jo’s pupils dilate and contract to make out shapes in front of him. The word Idiot drew itself in neon lights in front of his eyes when he saw what indeed awaited him.

“Oh.”

His head frill dipped against his skull, became a thin ridge as he recoiled in horror. 

He was expecting the normal sight of a Kyseer, like his Foster-Father, taking up one of the infirmary beds. Some poor sap who had overdone his mind magic and taken ill. Or some tourist perhaps. There was always one of those in here. It didn’t matter how many times you told them no. Sooner or later one always touched the thing you told them not to touch.

What he did see was a flesh-weaver curled almost double by one of the beds, the tell a tale red glow of weaving magic, only visible to those with the weaving gland, painting her and her patient a sickly blood red. Beneath the female Kyseer, he could see the delicate form of a Rhakshiaa. He had to wonder what it was like to take on the pain of a patients as your own.

Flesh-weaving required the Kyseer to use their own body to replicate the wounds. They literally took the wounds of their patients and put it on themselves, where their advanced systems and magic took over to quickly heal it in a matter of moments. It was a tiring and painful process.

He wasn’t sure why he was here though. He was not a flesh-weaver like his foster-father, or the poor female currently turning her own body into mush.

“Father, Father i don-” He was cut off by an effective, last bruising shove with a rigid, armored head. 

“I need you to be a calming presence Jo. You are best at this, and this Heket’ari will fight my healing if he is not calm. He’s already tried to Blood-state twice on me.” Crius’ voice was thick with the lisp all Kyseer had when speaking out loud. Mingled with the occasional clack of his beak like mouth. Like dry skulls crying together. 

Blood state was something most Heket’ari could control, though it was such a tiring thing that they were only able to do it infrequently, afterwards requiring massive amounts of sustenance to make up for it.

A left over puzzle piece from a time when Heket’ari were scrambling in the mud, Blood-state was a flight or fight reflex. It heightened their entire state of being. Reflexes, breathing, their dual hearts pumping at double time. No longer able to feel pain, their vision harnessed and focused on their target. It allowed them to be the deadly, perfect soldiers that they were. But when unable to control their own bodies, when their mind knew something was wrong, that they were dying-well. Needless to say it was not safe. 

He scoffed at the idea of being a calming influence. Still, Father was giving him that look. He followed him to the bed with the largest patient, the Heket’ari. A massive being that barely fit on the mattress. Watching his Father lay his hands on the dusky, scaled chest of the patient, he followed suit, trying to fight back the wave of nausea from the cracked wounds and smell of rotting flesh. 

Placing his hands on either side of the massive, diapsid skull, it was a good thing he had quick reflexes, as the moment his hands touched the patient, massive jaws easily larger than his head were snapping around him. He had a scant moment to admire impressive double rows of serrated teeth before he ducked out of the way. 

He wasn’t quick enough to dodge the tail in time though. It hit him with bruising force, nearly throwing him across the room, the only thing saving him was bare, clawed feet digging into the ground and his body curving against the impact, not against it. As he moved his ody back into place and his grip once more around the jaw bone, he swallowed a cry of pain. He could already feel the flesh on his lower half begin to bruise and swell. His skin wasn’t as thick as a full blooded Kyseer, but he could take most injuries humans could not. Had the Heket’ari been awake, he would be dead. Their tails were dangerous weapons, able to snap heavier materials than bones with ease.

Father was already in a healing trance by the time he was back in position, and just in time for Jo to see chunks of his flesh falling to the ground as he took on the patients injuries. The file of wasted, putrid flesh was growing rapidly around their feet..

His stomach twisted and fell, dropped to the ground with the last chunk of flesh. He could smell the stink of rot. While part of his mind was on soothing the patient, the other part finally took in the patient and his injuries as whole since entering. The cracks in his scaled flesh and the way the skin seemed to slough off the bones. Around the nostrils and eyes he could see the tender flesh there was swollen, almost to the point of closing both orifices. With each wheezing pant he knew the patient’s throat was rapidly closing. The cracked skin along his scale plates reminded him of his biology class. The Heket’ari had drowned, or at least been exposed to too much water for his desert coded body to handle. 

Trying to find something undamaged to look at, while his fingers pressed into the joint under the massive jaw was not easy. He took in the mark at his neck, a slick tattoo in the shape of an upside down desert rose with the points defined almost into knives. He was a mercenary than, probably a bodyguard for the rest of the crew, all on the beds around us by the look of it. A common and normally boring job for the Heket'ari. 

The poor thing probably had expected to be lounging around watching a young Rhakshiaa. An easy job that required nothing more than making sure no one had weapons or tried to eat the baby felinoid. Though he knew little of the mercenary life it was more than likely. And here he was, being dragged back to life after a watery demise. It took every last inch of his will power to remember why he was here, to force the pattern of his mind with the patients, to force connections where there were none. He projected quiet, calm, and peace. Safety. He wasn’t sure how he did it or why it worked, but he needed to be touching the person to even try, and mostly it didn’t work when they were awake and thinking on their own. 

Maybe he should have told Father ages ago that he was afraid of water, maybe then this wouldn't have happened. He wouldn't be here, trying to hold down a being that outweighed him six times over, with bruised kneecaps and fighting down vomit. Except telling him that he was afraid of water, when they lived in a city in the middle of an ocean on a planet ninety percent water, well, that seemed like a stupid idea. He couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt, glad he wasn’t the one on the bed, knowing he’d prefer to be dead to suffering the alien had gone through.

“He was part of the crew of six, a Rhakshiaa pleasure ship. It crashed far from here, in the Urukna reserve.. We only picked up the distress beacon this morning.” Crius' voice had a far away tone to it as he worked. He am proud of his Father; it was rare enough to be a grade six Weaver, but able to trance and speak a the same time? He didn't know anyone else who could do it. 

“He went into his species hibernation after day two, the Rhakshiaa tried to keep him warm but one can only do so much with a cabin full of icy water.” 

He pressed his grip firmly into the Heket'ari jaw so he could no longer open his mouth, as he listened and gave an agreeable noise. All he was doing was affirming his guess, that he had drowned. Reptilian skin could not last long in water. In fact, most Heket’ari had an understandable fear of water and even stuck to dust baths. 

It felt like hours, pressed into the reptilian being, dodging a dangerous massive tail and sharp teeth, listening to flesh fall to the ground as his father took the injuries of water wasted skin into himself and healed them. The rest of the crew, he surmised, were being healed for hypothermia and water damage. Heket'ari's scales settled in such a way that when exposed to cold temperatures, it cracked and exposed the tender flesh underneath. It severely damaged their entire system, killing off the cells beneath it and causing the rot that Dad was dealing with. 

It was only minutes though when he could finally peel himself away, joints feeling creaky and stiff, His legs hurt to even move. Gently untangling his mind from the aliens, the last few tendrils of forced contact left a gentle caress that took the memories of the healing with it. There would not be much to begin with, but being aware of the procedure, even in the case of a small wound, could severely damage the patients mind. Remembering the feeling of their body no longer being theirs, of flesh moving, bones crunching and gaps in their nerves and awareness. And, at the very bottom of the list, the pain of it all. It was one of the few mental reformatting that a Weaver could do without strict permission on both sides, written and verbal. In the case of no viable permission on the patients side, the Council itself had to be contacted for permission. A Weaver would never go against their most sacred of rules. To mess with the mind of someone was tantamount to rape. 

Crius's chest armour was clean, not a mark on him, though at his feet, already being cleaned up by the infirmary staff, was piles of mush and rot. I could tell though, by the membrane covering his six eyes that exhaustion had settled in. Unlike other healers he watched in the past, he was not unconscious, he could even move, if carefully, back from the bed to regard his work. 

He breathed a heavy sigh of relief. “He is healed, and out of his hibernation.”

He didn't doubt Father, but he still drew the sensitive skin of his fingers along the males chest, touched fully healed skin where once craters had been. He could feel his chest rising and falling in clear breaths, could see his eyelids already begin to flutter and his tail settle at his side. He was just asleep now. 

Father cocked his head to the side, membranes sliding back from his pupils so he could see me properly. “Go check on the other patients, talk to them.” 

For once he did what he was told without complaining, carefully limping his way to the next bed where the silver form of a Rhakshiaa lay. He was much slimmer than the muscle bound mercenary, but quite a fit specimen for his own species. Standing he guessed he’d be half a head taller than his own puny frame. He couldn't help but hide his smile. Every time the Rhakshiaa moved his head, his own crest, a line of dangerous spikes that started small between his ears and swept down around him like a mane of hair, poked and tore into the blankets beneath him. They were creatures that lay on their stomachs he knew. They took exposed necks and being on their back as a submissive posture, and having to lay on his back like he was must not have been comfortable. He had little choice. A bandage covered the wounds against his upper chest.

There wasn't much he could do for him but check his vitals, eyes darting to the machines beside his bed. His heart rate was a bit high, even for a Rhakshiaa, but when he leaned over to check the machine, soft fur brushed against his wrist, surprising a yelp from him.

He looked down into a pair of expansive amused crystal blue eyes, the slit pupils contracting to take in more details. 

“I uh, how are you feeling?” What was he supposed to say? Did you enjoy nearly drowning? Were you glad you didn't have to eat your bodyguard to survive? Why on the Water God's grave were you even in that area?

The purr that escaped a bifurcated mouth hit him in the gut, made a shiver run down his spine and a blush colour his cheeks. 

“I feel fantastic, like a newly born star.” Sarcasm dripped from delicately pointed teeth, and Jo found himself uncomfortable under the bright blue gaze. 

“I didn't mean to be rude, I just-”

He cut him off. “Hatching. I was joking. Do not fret! How is Slan?” Pale eyes flickered helpfully towards the bed with the mercenary. 

“Oh, he's healing, we um-” we? he hadn't done a damn thing, and hastily corrected that. “My Father healed him. He should be up and moving around in a day or two.”

“I am glad. We shouldn't have even been in that area. But my mates cub wished to see the Urukna sand towers and who am he to say no? Slan of course had to come with us, he insisted, as did Gregain, which is odd. The brother of my mate is not normally so pushy. I'm sure he regrets coming now.” The alien sighed, double slit nostrils flaring. 

he followed his gaze to yet another bed, where he assumed this Gregain lay. Unlike most of his species, he was a rust red from what he could see over the blankets. I knew he was feigning sleep, his tail flicked with agitation beside the bed. He guess then that the female Rhakshiaa the other doctor had been healing was his mate, and the small form in the farthest bed was their cub. While he was unable to see well from where he stood, something told him the cub was fine, merely napping.

Choosing not to say anything in response, there wasn’t a proper answer he could give, Jo made his way to a nearby infirmary cart and dug around until he came across one of the ubiquitous nutrient packs. Limping back to the side of the silver male, he slit it open with a claw tip and offered it to him. 

 

Accepting it with a look of disgust the feline like creature sucked the goop out of the silver bag. While his foster-people were known for fantastic bounds in medical knowledge, nutrient packs were the same for every specie it seemed. They tasted similiar to chalky, chunky mud with a touch of sugar added. He would need vitamins though, and the best way for him to get that was through his stomach. 

“The crash was a sore spot for Gregain. He is a top pilot, one of the best. I tried to tell him it was not his fault, but I'm afraid no one listens to me.” He gave a cursory flick of a silver ear as his eyelids began to drop, the medication in the pack taking effect.

His words began to slur as he continued talking. “He kept banging on the pipes, spiking up and making a fool of himself. Scared the little one though, he can...tell you that. You know-you guys are rather good at this stuff. I never seen-never had healing like this before. Hrm-never saw a two legged squishie before either. You're rather cute you know. If'n you don-dont mind the wet smell. I like fii..fish though.” 

As he took the empty pack from unresistant fingers, a claw tip over the ‘medicated’ symbol on the pouch, he didn’t bother to hide his smile this time. He supposed squishie was better than the term ‘squish flop’, which was a gerogatory term for a Kyseer. Did he smell like fish though? Making sure no one was looking, he lifted an arm to his nostrils and inhaled. No..all he could detect was the soaps he had used to wash, as well as the oil that kept his skin from drying out. 

Amused for the first time since entering the infirmary he went to the next bed, the one with the red furred Rhakshiaa. Without much bed side manner Jo peered into his eyelids, drawing them back to inspect the contracting pupil. He could get this done quickly now that he was not dealing with the sight and smell of rotted flesh. 

“I just wanted to make sure you were healing well, the one over there said your name was Gregain and I...-”

_Purple, the same purple of the deep oceans. Darkness, deep and uncaring moved beneath the top waves, surrounding him with icy claws. Drowning, He was drowning! He couldn't breathe!_

_His vision swam as he fought for air, water rushing into his lungs and stomach. Thrashing violently, clawing the water and kicking his legs he trried to fight it, tried to move. But thick, throbbing tendrils oozed their way past his lips, ice cold and beating with a thousand hearts. They pressed their oily way down his throat, into his lungs and stomach. He could feel the cold start to take over every inch of his very being._

_Finally he gave up, stopped fighting. Allowed the darkness, the flashes of color and pain, to take over. He let them writhe within him, turn him into ice. With the cold came nothing. No worry, no guilt. Perhaps...perhaps this was ok. Perhaps it was right to take the cold in, make it part of him. Perhaps it was fine to feel nothing at all._

_It was ok. There was nothing. He was alone, dying. And that..that was ok too. What was the point of fighting when it was all going to end in agony anyway? It was only a matter of time._

_He closed his eyes._

**“Wake up.”**

_What a foolish thing to say. He can't wake up. He’s dying._

**“Wake up. It is not time for you to do die. You have to See.”**

_He tried to scream back at that voice. Then help me! I can't do it on my own!_

**“NO.”**

_Pain._

__

__

Red, pulsating knives grinding into his heart, scraping along his brain and his flesh. They dug and pried everything away until all that was left was bone.

_Help me! He tried to scream, help me!_

**“NO.”**

_Saws drew across his bare spine, dragging their teeth into the soft cartilage and cracking the bones._

__

__

_WHAT IS THE POINT? WHY WONT YOU HELP ME? Could that voice even hear? Couldn't it tell he was being destroyed?_

**“The needs of one do not matter. We only intervene if the many will suffer. You must wake up. I tire of this conversation. If you do not See you will die, and you will cease to be. Your life is meaningless. You are meaningless, unless you SEE”**

_Claws dug out his eyes, bent to drag along his skull to crack the bone between, broke it to carve a third hole there-_

And he fell back to reality to the feeling of soft paw pads on his cheek, brushing along the tight skin under eyes damp with tears. Kyseer’s couldn’t cry. Only he, the halfbreed freak could do that.

'Are you all right, Hatchling?” Gregain's voice was deep, almost a purr on its own, it pushed away the pain that had written itself across his body. 

All he could do was stare into those purple eyes, part of him that was numb to this all realizing they weren’t just a solid purple-there were shards of gold and green. They stared at him with such worry and care.

His chest felt tight, breathing was painful and his vision kept swimming in and out. Had he hallucinated? Since he was a toddler he could remember, doubting himself. Questioning who he was what he was, and when the damaged, twisted genes of his make up would show through. Wondered how human he looked and acted.

Kyseer did not suffer from mental illness like humans, not to the extent. Any sign of it, symptom was felt by many, acted upon and fixed. Even those without the weaver gland were dangerous, latent. To have such a powerful mind damaged, one that could tap into a life essence itself, it was more than just dangerous. Most illnesses were fixed during conception, the safest way for the many. Unless of course they were Ur-addicts, the drug rewriting the many pathways of their minds, opening up spaces that had been seared closed years ago. Jo was banned from touching the drug, not that he even wanted to. He couldn’t help but remember that he was not a naturally born creature. He was created in a test tube. Adding to the mess that he was would be..stupid.

Gregain smelt spicy, he smelt like home and comfort. He found myself leaning into his touch, allowing a moment to enjoy these new feelings before he broke away, tried to force his head frill up to show that hew as not upset. He wasn’t crazy or broken. 

“I um, ‘m fine. Just..felt faint. Working to hard. You know how it is im sure. Erm, here you go, eat this.” Hurriedly forcing a second, medicated nutrient pack at the furred creature, Jo ran past his Father, mumbling an excuse as he fled.

Xxxx


End file.
